


The List

by roboticonography



Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/M, May/December Relationship, Old Peggy Carter, Older Woman/Younger Man, Steve's notebook
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-18
Updated: 2016-03-18
Packaged: 2018-05-27 09:41:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,987
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6279382
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/roboticonography/pseuds/roboticonography
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There are a lot of things about the new century that Steve still finds confusing. Peggy suggests he make a list.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The List

**Author's Note:**

> I posted this a while ago on Tumblr, and thought I'd put it up here as well.
> 
> Mostly canon compliant; there's the implication that Steve and Peggy got it on at least once during wartime, but if you're here, I'm guessing you're in favour of that sort of thing.

**“Darlex” (??)**

  
The first time Steve comes by, Peggy is slightly overwrought. She compensates for this by blathering on about absolutely nothing of consequence: the weather, her leisure activities, the lawn-grooming habits of her odious neighbours, what’s on television.

 

She’s acutely aware, in this moment, that she is Being an Old Woman at him, but the alternative—a painful baring of the emotions, culminating in her wetting the shoulder of his modern, stylish jacket with tears—is absolutely out of the question.

 

She’s halfway through railing about the most recent season of  _Downton Abbey_  before she realizes that Steve hasn’t said a word since pulling out her chair. His expression reminds her of the waxwork she saw of him in London in the 1990s: pleasant, but vacant. 

 

“Steve.”

 

“Yes, ma’am.” He’s sitting up straight as a poker, hands folded in front of him, as though they’re having an operations meeting instead of tea at her shabby kitchen table. She’s irrationally frustrated with him for feigning interest, as though she’s some elderly aunt he feels duty-bound to visit on Sundays. If that’s the case, she’d rather he didn’t come at all.

 

“Is it that you aren’t listening, or that you don’t care?”

 

The mask of politeness cracks, just long enough for her to catch a glimpse of the old familiar stubbornness beneath it. “I  _am_  listening,” he asserts.

 

She waits.

 

“I don’t understand some of the words you’re using.”

 

She makes an exasperated noise, then goes to the junk drawer and takes out an unused, outdated day timer (waste not, want not) and a slightly gnawed pencil stub (Peggy has never quite lost the habit, despite having lost some of her teeth).

 

She puts them down in front of him, and he picks up the pencil, looking even more perplexed, and a little embarrassed. She’s amazed at how well she can still read his face, even after so long—though Steve always did wear his heart on his sleeve.

 

“Make a list of everything that you didn’t understand, and we’ll start from there.”

 

She leans over his shoulder and watches him write the words, pausing for a moment before each one. It seems as though he’s writing in an alien language; it takes Peggy a moment to interpret his phonetic spelling.

 

He’d seemed so knowledgeable on the telephone, so confident—giving her his cell number, talking about texting and finding her address on Google Maps. She hadn’t realized there would be gaps. She could kick herself for being so terribly unkind.

 

“The first one is TiVo,” she tells him, spelling it out. “It’s a device you use to record television so you can watch it later.”

 

He strikes out  _tiveaux_ , writes it in correctly.

 

“ _Netflix_ —all one word, X instead of C-K-S—it’s a service that lets you play movies on your television or your computer.” 

 

He makes the note.

 

“You must think I do nothing but sit on my arse all day, glued to the idiot box.” She watches his face as he parses out the statement:  _idiot box._  ”Yes, I mentioned my arse,” she adds dryly. “Try not to faint.”

 

Steve ducks his head to hide his smile. He’s smiling, though, at least.

 

She points to the next word on the list,  _darlex_. “That’s  _daleks_. They’re space aliens from a television program. Not quite as menacing as the real thing, I would imagine.”

 

Steve writes.

 

Peggy pats his shoulder, then reaches past him for her cane. “Bring my tea,” she tells him, making her way into the living room. “We’ll kill all of these birds with one stone.”

 

* * *

  

**Black Sabbath (singer or band)**

 

“I didn’t think heavy metal music was your style,” says Peggy.

 

“It isn’t. I saw it on Tony’s shirt a while back.”

 

Peggy has never met Tony Stark in person.

 

She tries not to let the regret show on her face, but obviously she fails, because Steve says, “We don’t have to talk about him if you don’t want to.”

 

He’s still so very careful of her feelings, even after weeks of regular visits. It’s exasperating.

 

“It’s fine,” says Peggy, dismissively. “How do you like him?”

 

“We got off on the wrong foot. I was rude.”

 

Peggy tries to picture Steve being rude. Only one example springs to mind, and she can’t imagine that Tony would be offended if he caught Steve necking with some man-hungry bottle-blonde. (Cattiness has never become Peggy, but occasionally she tries it on for size all the same.)

 

“What did you do?”

 

Steve looks ashamed. “I called him a coward, and told him to stop pretending to be a hero.”

 

“What did he say to that?”

 

“He said everything special about me came out of a bottle.” He recites the words, as if he’s running lines for a USO performance.

 

“It sounds as though you were both out of line. You know that isn’t true, don’t you?”

 

Steve shrugs.

 

“Don’t you dare,” she says, her voice trembling with anger. “Don’t you _dare_ disagree with me, Steven Rogers, or I’ll slap you silly and I don’t care if I break my hand doing it.”

 

He looks at her in what can only be described as wonder. “You would,” he says softly.

 

“You’re damn right I would.”

 

* * *

  

**Sean Connery (actor)**

 

“Yes, of course! He was my favourite James Bond. You know James Bond?”

 

A non-committal grunt.

 

“Oh, I know they’re silly, but they can be fun.”

 

“I suppose. Pretty violent, though.”

 

“Yes, the newer ones are.” Peggy grins wickedly. “Oh, but I do fancy that Daniel Craig. I like it when they put him in a little bathing suit and have him parade about on the beach.”

 

Steve stops just short of actually rolling his eyes. “Come on with that.”

 

“No, _you_ come on.” She elbows him in the ribs. “I’m ninety-four, I’m not dead. I can still look.”

 

Steve makes a peculiar face, and won’t look her in the eye.

 

“He’s just my type,” she continues. “Tall, blond, muscular... now that I think about it, I wish we’d found more excuses to put _you_ in a little bathing suit during the war. With the stars and stripes on it, of course. Perhaps they still can. You should speak to your supervisor about it.”

 

She’s aiming to shake him out of it a little, make him laugh, but instead he leans down and gathers her gently into his arms. He stays like that for a minute or two: wrapped around her, solid as a house, breathing softly into the fabric of her sweater. He doesn’t say a word, but the sadness is palpable—it rolls off him in waves.

 

She wishes she could kiss him, but she knows that probably isn’t a good idea. Instead, she rubs his back comfortingly.

 

After a while, she says, “Now I know what to get you for your birthday.”

 

He chuckles, and squeezes her a little tighter.

 

* * *

 

**“Cockblocked” (slang term)**

 

Steve’s list gets transferred to a fresh notebook, and then it becomes multiple lists, on multiple pages—one of which he avoids showing her, at least at first. He’s titled it, with more tact than precision, “Locker Room Talk.”

 

Peggy is as mystified by some of the terms as Steve is, but she’s picked up a few things on her travels, and from television and movies.

 

“Oh, _that_ ,” says Peggy, dismissively. “That’s not a new thing. We would have called it… bird-dogging?”

 

“Gotcha.”

 

“These young people. They think they invented sex. As every generation does, I suppose.”

 

Steve looks distinctly uncomfortable, so she changes the subject.

 

Later that night, she reflects that it’s probably better that he doesn’t consider her in that light any more. Her body is still soft, but it is the softness of age and long use, like the cottony creases in the cover of a paperback book. Peggy’s book has been read well and frequently over the years—but of course, one never forgets the awed, reverent touch of that first intrepid reader.

 

And therein lies the real source of Peggy’s hesitation: Steve had known her body in its prime—toned muscle under supple flesh, proud young breasts and buttocks, a perfect unmarked expanse of skin. She’d been ravishing, god damn it, easily his match, and for that one night they had been glorious together.

 

For him to have to only the first and last stages to compare, with no sense of the passage of time in between—it’s so terribly unfair.

 

She does have a powerful yearning to kiss him, though. Just once. She still dreams about it, sometimes: the bruising crush of his big arms, the gentle press of his lips to hers. That combination of softness and strength that was always Steve’s hallmark.

 

She knows it would be cruel of her, though, and abominably selfish. Better he should think fondly on what they had, and not waste time trying to recreate what they missed.

 

*

 

The following afternoon, Peggy is feeling particularly sprightly, and suggests a walk in the park. 

 

Steve is patient with her snail’s pace, offering his arm, and seems to be in a good mood—at least until he installs her on a park bench and jogs away to get a hot dog. Peggy watches with unabashed appreciation; his magnificent shoulders and narrow hips, the graceful dancer’s stride of his long legs… it’s enough to set any girl’s heart aflutter, and even Peggy’s aged heart still has a few faint tremors left.

 

When he comes back, he sits beside her and scowls at his hot dog without eating it.

 

“Your face will stick that way if the wind changes,” she observes.

 

“Sorry.”

 

“Never mind sorry. Tell me what’s wrong.”

 

He nods in the direction of the hot dog cart. “He said it was nice to see a young guy so close with his— _grandmother_.” He spits the word out as though it’s an obscenity.

 

Peggy laughs. “Is that all?” Oh, to be young again, with an ego so easily bruised! “Please don’t be insulted on my behalf. You must realize how it looks.”

 

“I don’t care how it looks!” He’s genuinely angry now. This is more than just a case of wounded pride, she realizes. It makes her sad—not for herself; she has no regrets about the life she’s lived, the person she’s been. But Steve is still so, so young.

 

As a rule, Peggy tries not to touch him more than she can help, because letting go becomes more difficult each time. Now, though, she reaches over and takes his hand, laces their fingers together. He glances at her, his eyebrows drawing together.

 

“I don’t care how it looks either,” she assures him, giving his hand a squeeze. “People can think what they like. You’re a wonderful friend, and having you back has been such a gift.”

 

“But that’s all I am,” he says, with a bitter weariness that surprises her. “A friend.”

 

“Steve...”

 

“Forget it.”

 

She reaches up and touches his cheek gently, turns his face towards hers. “What would you like to be?”

 

He draws a breath, as if he’s going to answer—then closes the distance, lightning-fast, his mouth landing on hers with a force that stops just short of being painful. And thank goodness for that, because Peggy doesn’t think she could bear it if he treated her delicately right now.

 

Steve kisses the way he does everything else—with the full force of his convictions. Nothing about it is shy, or uncertain.

 

Just like she remembers.

 

“ _Well_ ,” she says, breathlessly.

 

“I’m sorry.”

 

“You’d bloody well better not be,” Peggy retorts.

 

“Not really, no.” He’s looking at her in awe.

 

“Good. All right.”

 

Peggy can only imagine what the people around them must be thinking. If she could tear her eyes from Steve’s face for even a moment, she’d be tempted to look over at the hot dog vendor and wave.

 

(She’s above that sort of thing, of course.)

 

(Mostly.)

 


End file.
